To Move On
by Spottedleafpaw
Summary: Everyone always writes angsty stuff about George left behind after the death of Fred. It wasn't easy. What makes people think that it was for Fred? Death, the breaking of a twin bond, and what Fred experiences along with some familiar faces. Mild language, some descriptive gore, self-harm instances. One-shot. \ Re-written into a HP fiction based off of some of my original work.


**Wrote this on a whim one day when I was feeling particularly horrible about stuff. Initially I wrote this for my creative writing class, with a different set of characters and a whole different premise. Nothing fanfiction-y at all. So then after I was done, I looked at it and thought... Whoa, this could fit Fred and George REALLY well if I change a few things. I got into character, and boy, was this difficult to write. So here it is, hope it's not a bunch of shit. **

**In general I'm sort of pleased with this, but I'm not sure how I feel about changing one of my original works into a fanfiction so... We'll see how long this stays up on here. Meh. I had to delete a bunch of my favorite characters and merge them into others (from my original story) so I don't know.**

**The idea, in a nutshell, is this:**

_**Everyone always writes angsty shit about George left behind after the death of Fred. It wasn't easy. What makes people think that it was for Fred?**_

* * *

Nothing was left. No air in his lungs. No vision in his eyes. It was all strangely peaceful for a while. It was as if with losing every sense, every feeling, he had lost every corresponding emotion. For a little while it had hurt, in that he could feel it physically happening, his limbs being crushed and the blood seeping wetly out of gashes and cuts, but he soon lost all sense of that. Numb for a while. Then that agonizing pain that was something entirely new, something much more substantial as his soul was ripped from his body. He felt the connections being slashed jaggedly away, and he wanted to scream, wanted it to stop, wanted George, but the more he fought for something to hold on to, the quicker it was stolen away. Finally, the last stitch was cut.

Nothing. No emotions, except the vague desire for everything to reverse itself. He vaguely remembers laughing, his eyes dancing as he sent curses towards those that he battled. A reconciliation, perhaps. Then no solid ground under his feet, his neck snapping back painfully and finally his air cut off. Spots dancing before his eyes, no longer seeing. And then the pain. All the while he holds desperately onto the last thing keeping him who he was, Fred, Gred, Rapier, George. Six letters that meant his world. What did they mean? What was he losing? What was he leaving? Grasping at straws, that's all he was accomplishing. Something about toilet seats.

The oppressive force pushing the life out of him scared him, he felt it hovering and looming over him like those centuries-old stones that crushed him. He wanted George, but what could George do? George. He wanted to clutch George to him, hold him and never let him go, see what happens when you try to separate them, the Weasley Twins, you sonsofbitches, don't even suggest something so crazy, crazier than Bellatrix fucking Lestrange, that is... His throat closed up and George's face was the last thing he pictured before being sucked into a deathly unconsciousness.

.-.-.

And then he was awake, gasping and clawing at his throat. Everything was blurry, and he let out a strangled cry followed out by many more; long, drawn out wails that did nothing to ease the torturous agony blooming from inside of him. It was blurrily grey, nothing made sense, where was he? The blurs faded as he opened his eyes wider, he realized that it was tears keeping his sight from him and he scratched them away, still gulping and gasping for something; was he looking for the breath of life, since now his had been taken from him?

He was sitting at a train station, King's Cross. Grey asphalt under his legs, he crawled up to his knees and another wave of depression hit and he fell to all fours, cascades of salty tears dripping onto the platform and evaporating. He couldn't form words, only agonized cries that escaped his gasping lips. Where was George, why had he left George, why wasn't George there for him? George could have stopped this, he could have come with him... He was alone and frightened, lost. He crumpled to the cold ground, shaking and hugging himself. He had been ripped in half and thrown into a place he could not escape from.

"It's not always this bad. Although yours might be unique."

He knew that voice, and he scrambled to get a good look at the face of Sirius Black. He was more youthful, the haggard days of Azkaban gone from his face. No smile, just a grim thin-lipped visage that Fred couldn't stare at as more blurring occurred. Still no words, just gasps and moans of pain and loss. Behind Sirius approached a light, a bright one that Fred blocked by scrabbling his hands over his eyes and soaking them in the process. A train coming, he could hear it, but the pounding blood in his ears blocked it soon enough. He felt arms around his waist and then he was standing up, sagging against the firm body of Sirius. He clutched desperately to the man, wanting some sense of physical contact, but then feeling repulsed as it wasn't the contact he needed. George. He felt five years old again, young; he remembered comforting his twin. Now it was he who necessitated the comforting, the desperate need to be alive.

"Get on the train, come on then." Sirius helped him onto a blood red steam engine, into a compartment where he sat him down. Fred clutched Sirius' arm, but then pushed him away as he crumpled into a heap on the train seat.

"I can't stay with you, I have to pick up the others as well. Hopefully someone will be at the other end to help you out" Sirius said, and left the compartment with a parting smile. This set him off into another fit of depressed nausea. The train began to move. The further away it took him, the further away George was becoming, he just knew it. He opened his mouth and shook with silent cries, desperation and hope shattering around him. He was truly gone then, never to see the face of his other half again save in those memories that cut like knives. He wanted to rip himself to pieces.

He rolled off the seat, welcoming the painful thud as he landed awkwardly on the ground, tears and sweat and pain were appreciated. Every fibre of his being wanted more pain, anything to drown out the intense cracks rippling across his body with each new thought of what he left. He raked his fingernails across his face, neck, arms, wanting to draw blood and see it well to the surface. The memories were surfacing again, taking control, and so he beat his head against the floor before all the pent up energy ebbed away from his body. He was bleeding, he tasted the blood. He let the train rock him into a tearful slumber swimming with memories. _I just can't look, it's killing me..._

_.-.-._

Unsticking his eyelids he realized the train was still. And then it jerked, and began to roll again, but he felt gravity pulling him towards the way he had come. He was returning to where he had just departed from, King's Cross. He sat up. "George." He spoke clearly.

"I've been called many things in my old lifetime, Mr. Weasley, but that I must say is a new one."

He realized that he wasn't alone, and looking into the glittering blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles Fred felt a wave of affection pass over him. He remained sitting awkwardly on the floor, staring up into the eyes of Albus Dumbledore, seeking answers. He got right down to the point.

"My experience with Death was, as all those who experience the Killing Curse, what I believe to be the kinder option. I hope you see my reasoning for this; death was instant, and I was then faced with a choice. I appeared in King's Cross station and Death grinned down at me. He asked 'What is your wish?' and I asked for my options. He replied 'You may pass on from this place, and be spared looking upon your loved ones for all eternity, or you remain. You may go back as a spectre if you wish to live the most miserable of lives.' I chose this, for I have a purpose yet. You, my dear boy, were ripped from life in a much crueler way and I'm sure the separation from your twin must increase the pain to extraordinary measures" he smiled in a kindly way.

"George" Fred repeated, still staring; the mirror image of himself laughed in his mind.

"As we are almost at the destination, I will remind you of this. As much as you are conflicted, you must choose to remember. It will be your greatest ally in the end." And with that he patted Fred's head and stood, leaving the compartment.

Fred copied him, but stayed at the door of the train, not getting off. A few others were boarding it from other entrances, but his eyes remained on the back of Dumbledore. A strange, grey mist seemed to envelop the station, and there appeared a creature on one of the seats of the waiting bench, whimpering and making odd sort of thumping noises. It looked like a disgusting fetus of some sort. The mist was getting thicker, and it was becoming harder to hear things.

There appeared a moving image on the asphalt of the station. Fred felt an electric jolt rush through him as he saw George; he was kneeling down in front of something it seemed, the wreckage of the battle off to the side. Fred saw his own form being cradled in his twin's arms, and he could slightly hear the despaired cries of agony leaving his lips. He stepped down onto a lower step of the train, unsure. Suddenly he was being pulled into the void, falling into the image and everything was loud and he let out a cry as he suddenly found himself standing over the identical forms and the others in the Great Hall.

"Freddie, come on, don't" George was saying, shaking with sobs as he tried to rouse his brother. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, I didn't have your back, and then this..." he trailed off.

Fred himself was in shock, staring at his own dead body. His red hair was matted with blood and grit, which covered most of his body as well. His green dragonskin jacket was ripped and a large gash in his side was slowly gushing wet, red blood. One of his legs was cracked at an odd angle, the bone sticking out. His arm was twisted behind him, having come loose from the socket completely; George's identical blue eyes were scrunched up in pain as he cried, every once in a while letting out a choked scream as he came to terms with everything.

"Oh, George..."

Their mother was also there, shaking as she held on to her husband in shock and sadness. Fred was surrounded by all those people who loved him, who were mourning him, and he wanted to reach out to all of them and tell them that he was right there, no need to worry... But he couldn't.

"He's gone! No, he shouldn't be... Oh, Fred..." Hermione whispered to Ginny. Fred was wondering why she seemed so heartbroken over this, but then he realized that Harry also was missing from the ranks of people recuperating in the Great Hall.

"He's not... He can't be..." George moaned.

Fred knelt down beside his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder that he knew he couldn't feel. He wanted George to have some of his strength, for he'd have to live out the rest of his days not knowing if he'd ever see his best friend again.

"I'm here. I want to be with you, home, but... I guess that wasn't in the cards for me" he said slowly. "I'll see you again, but damn, do I want to just wake up and see you right now" his voice was getting heavy from all the effort it took not to break down into sobs.

"You need to live for me, okay? Live every day as if I'm right next to you because I want you to tell me all about it when I see you again..." he broke off, wrapping his arms around George's neck. His twin seemed to stiffen a bit, as if a cold shiver had taken over his whole body, and it sent goosebumps across his flesh.

The mist was back. Fred's eyes had shut during his hug, and when he had opened them again he was back at King's Cross. He let out a small gasp of anguish at the loss of his twin, but then he saw something else happening at the station.

Dumbledore had approached someone who, Fred thought, had simply appeared there, materializing from the curling mist. Harry Potter stared, repulsed, at the fetus under the bench and Dumbledore began to talk to him. Fred felt an electric jolt rush through him as he saw Harry; he needed to talk to him. He stepped down onto a lower step of the train, unsure.

The train lurched, and Fred fell back inside. With a strangled cry, he made a leap for the entrance, desperate to speak with Harry, he could take him back to George, to life, he just knew it, but the mist was covering everything, curling over his eyeballs, blocking the Golden Boy from his sight, and then King's Cross was gone.

He sat bewildered, tears pricking his eyes like needles. He was handicapped, sluggish, not able to be himself as he once was.

"Up, you. Come on. I was told you'd have problems." He looked into a new pair of eyes, golden and sad, on a face he felt he should recognize but was strangely young. Younger than he was. The grey streaked hair and smallish scars adorning his face appeared out of place in his memory. The boy wrapped his thin arms around his waist and hoisted him upright. "She moved on. I can't find her" he told Fred, who was still lost and confused, and each forced step towards a compartment jolted his insides and made him wince. He leaned heavily against the boy.

"Remus" Fred finally gasped out, as the aged face of the werewolf he knew spun into his thoughts in fuller clarity. Remus pulled open the door to a compartment on the train and dragged Fred into it, setting him down in a seat. Fred clutched at him, needing something real to hold onto once more as another memory of George smacked his consciousness. Remus didn't seem to mind the contact.

"Sirius is young again, I should have known he would. Vain prat" he mumbled. Fred felt as if he was attempting to cover up those emotions that were clawing so desperately in his own body. "You have blood on your face" Remus stated. Fred gaped at the golden eyed boy, who rolled his eyes and attempted to wipe it off. It was dry and stuck to his skin. Remus wet his fingertips and rubbed the dried blood off; the wetness triggered something in Fred, and he began to cry again. 'George' he moaned, fisting his hands into his ginger hair and wanting to pull it out. Remus patted him awkwardly on the knee.

"...'Dora went on without me. I get it" he said quietly and Fred felt something akin to appreciation among the hot pain that seared through his system. The train rolled on, back to the farther away than he already was.

* * *

"_Your heart's a mess, you won't admit to it,_

_it makes no sense, but I'm desperate to connect!_

_And you can't live like this..."_

_-Gotye_

* * *

**Okay guys, let me know what you think with a review! I may or may not take this down due to my previous reasons stated by the author's note, but if the response is good enough I'll leave it up :)**

**xx**


End file.
